Oh, you know the type—”Yeah, that’s just me.” He had other women, but leaving his family was never on the cards.
All of Emily’s friends told her she was mad. And—well, she knew it too. But even with that, she couldn’t bring herself to change anything. Her feelings for her husband had faded long ago, slipped away between loads of laundry, rushed dinners, sleepless nights, and endless work. She used to hurry home, heart full, but now she just dragged herself through the door—exhausted, worn down, empty-eyed. At forty, she looked fifty, and that wasn’t an exaggeration—just the plain truth.
The only one who truly felt for her was… her mother-in-law. Margaret. A woman with a sharp tongue but a heart of gold. She’d moved in with Emily and her son after coming down from Yorkshire to London for treatment—something their little town couldn’t offer. She took the spare room and helped with seven-year-old Sophie, since Emily was out working all hours.
And the husband? Oh, *James*. As he got older, it was like a switch had flipped in his head. Started coming home late—or not at all until dawn. Reeked of sweet perfume, blamed it on “a new cologne,” though the whole building knew he was seeing someone. Or rather, *someones*.
He’d mix up names, calling Emily “Lucy” or “Claire” or “Sarah,” always with that smug little smirk—like, *Yeah, caught me. So what?* He didn’t even hide it. Almost seemed proud. *”Yeah, that’s just me,”* his eyes said.
It might’ve gone on forever if one night, at 3 a.m., the hallway phone hadn’t screamed to life. Some other woman, demanding to know where her “lovey” was, why he wasn’t picking up. Emily was stunned—not just by the call, but how easily this stranger had clawed into her home, her night, her life.
When James slunk in at sunrise, hungover and guilty-faced, Emily snapped. She hurled his things into the hallway with so much force the cat bolted under the sofa. He spluttered excuses—
*”Fine, yeah, I’m seeing someone. But I’m not leaving! We’ve got kids. Mum’s ill. We’re a family!”*
But Margaret stepped out of her room and, for the first time in years, raised her voice—
*”If you want to be with someone else, go. But go *somewhere else*. I’ll find a place—I’ve only got a bit of treatment left. And the kids have exams. Enough of this mess. We all deserve a proper life.”*
Emily started to argue—*her house, her home, her call*—but Margaret cut in—
*”I won’t interfere, but while I’m here, I won’t let this flat turn into a circus. Pack his bags. I’ll stay till the weekend, find a room. After that—your choice.”*
Under his mother’s glare, James muttered to himself, shoving shirts and trousers into a gym bag. Awkward, humiliating—but deserved.
After he left, Emily realised—for the first time in years—the house was *quiet*. Truly quiet. No shouting, no midnight calls, no demands. Margaret visited weekly with fresh scones for Sophie and updates. And Emily? She started waking up without that lump in her throat. She even looked at herself in the mirror differently.
Then, months later, just as treatment ended and Margaret was packing to go home—James showed up. Flowers in hand, guilt on his face. Dropped the words that froze Emily’s heart—
*”Forgive me. She kicked me out. I get it now. Give me another chance. Let’s start fresh?”*
Margaret, already in her coat, suitcase in hand, just looked at Emily—
*”It’s your call. I won’t interfere. But it’s time you thought about who *you* want to be—not who you pity.”*
Then she took the kids to the kitchen.
And there Emily stood, staring at the man who’d betrayed her over and over. The man who used to be family—now just a stranger on her doorstep. And this time, the choice was hers alone. Only hers.
